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Geta was not a patient man.
Nor was he a kind man.
But by his estimation, no matter how bad he was, Caracalla was worse.
Their father had been a fool to hand them a concurrent rule. To expect them to get along for the good of their nation. But then again, Septimus had only managed to hold onto his throne for a little over a decade himself before losing his life to the same politics he’d thrust his sons into.
It was understandable. Septimus had a grand vision for Rome. Something that would’ve had them amass more land and power, to create the strongest army in the world. Perhaps untenable, but ambition was fortifying that way. Septimus had achieved a certain degree of success, stability and fortune during his reign, giving no quarter to the Britons even when they’d been amenable to negotiations.
His ambition had been his undoing, however. As was often the case.
He’d hedged his bets by naming Caracalla as his successor before his balls had even dropped, and Cara had spent the years since with his lips firmly pressed to his father’s ass as thanks for the gesture.
Geta was not quite so eager to assume the massive responsibility.
It wasn’t as though he thought he was better than his older brother. Nor did he consider himself smarter than his father. He was not too good for the throne, nor was he not good enough for it. All the same, it had felt more like a massive burden than anything when his father had also chosen him as a successor.
The initial plan as far as Geta was aware was for him to be a contingency successor. To perhaps be shipped safely out of the capital, to live a remote life of luxury just in case dear Cara happened to trip on his robes and break his obnoxious neck on the palace stairs.
He’d initially been mortified when, upon Septimus’ death, it was made clear that he and Caracalla would rule concurrently.
… Maybe Geta was smarter than his father after all.
This was a foolish plan. He and Caracella had never liked each other much. They were able to be civil with nothing at stake, but this crown split between them seemed to take the shape of a noose more often than not, strangling them both in equal measure no matter how they struggled to balance the weight of it. Geta would concede, even when he knew he shouldn’t, and yet Caracalla would give no quarter in return. Despite himself, Geta’s ego began to flare up. He started being obstinate, stubborn. Pressing back for the sake of it. An undignified nightmare.
They’d convene at temples, at the coliseum, at their mother’s quarters. Obliged to put on a good show for their people, it was a struggle to continue the facade of a united front. Geta had been tempted early on to walk away, but he’d been all but trapped. He couldn’t vacate his position willingly. His father had sewn it into the laws that ensured he had a line of succession to begin with. When threatened with execution if you abdicate, you learn to tolerate a life you might not have necessarily wanted otherwise.
The next option after that was passive rulership. He would remain a figurehead, but he would not fight his brother on any of his decisions. He would remain agreeable on a surface level. Impassive. And there were times where that worked. Where Geta could look at Cara in his neighboring throne as a handful of retiarius battled a lion (to little effect), and think: ‘If things could just always be like this, we might come out of this alright.’ But then Cara would say or do something to piss him off again, and they’d end up right back at square one.
Caracalla was vindictive. Spiteful. Jealous. All things that made for a terrible ruler.
And yet people predominantly bowed at his feet. Said ‘yes’ to his every whim and desire. He was the first successor, having been named almost eight years before Geta, and he’d never let anyone forget it. This was not supposed to matter, but it did. Geta saw it in the way people would look to Cara first when they entered a room together. The way Cara would be greeted first at parties. The way he had his pick of men and women to share his bed, and Geta was offered second choice. The way his wine was poured second when they ate, Cara's cup already at his lips, like he was eager to constantly leave Geta a step behind him.
Objective equality could not be so freely given as Septimus had apparently thought.
In fact, only two people seemed to unerringly give Geta the respect he believed he deserved.
Pathetically enough, the first was his mother.
Domna had always been pragmatic, and had proven herself more worthy of her rank than either Geta’s father or brother, at least in his eyes. She was regal. Elegant. Shrewd. Wise.
The night of the joint coronation, she’d taken Geta aside and told him:
“Your father fought hard for an era of peace and fortune to grace our people. And he believed the only path to that future was for you and Caracalla to rule together, hand-in-hand. He has been prepared since he could speak to rule. You have less experience, but I truly believe we will fall to ruin without your guidance.”
Sure, Domna probably had her own aims in saying so. She’d also taken Caracalla aside and toasted privately with him to his rule, probably whispered the same sweet nothings about the sanctity of his rule to him. But there was something in her eyes, even months later, that made Geta believe she meant every word she’d said to him.
The second person that gave Geta his dues was Marcus Acacius.
This was a fact that gave Geta no shortage of glee.
Caracalla had been at Septimus’ side for several key battles in their northern expansions, and Acacius had been one of Septimus’ most loyal men, quickly ascending to the rank of General, something Caracalla had insisted upon keeping instated upon their ascension as a means of keeping Rome’s armies firmly under his thumb.
Geta had not seen fit to dispute this.
His reasoning was simple.
He’d seen the respect Acacius had extended to their father in his day. And all the gestures, the pomp and circumstance, they were there. But there was something different in Acacius’ eyes now. Something detached. He’d put a wall up between himself and Caracalla, in spite of Cara bending over backwards to make a show of his respect for the man.
There were moments where Geta could see contempt practically oozing from Acacius’ pores for Caracalla. Where his eyes would glaze over as Cara spoke. Amazingly, there were even times where Acacius had explicitly defied marching orders, and there wasn’t a damn thing Caracalla could do to object without labeling himself a fool. Acacius was content to make it look like all the credit landed at Caracalla’s feet where it belonged, and at times it seemed that only he and Geta really knew the truth.
It was horribly enticing.
The general was private in his dealings. Geta had done several deep dives to gain as much information as he could on the man. Trained by a former gladiator. Widowed at a young age. He was morally upright to the point of annoyance. He was kind to Roman citizens. If it was within his power to ensure they were clothed, fed, and sheltered (and sometimes even if went beyond his parameters), he would do so.
Acacius had a bizarre failing in that he did not seem interested in bedding anyone. Try as he might, Geta heard no word of him patronizing brothels or getting handsy at public bath houses. His subordinates seemed to respect this; they took it as a sign that he was now and forever would be morning his great lost love.
And Geta wanted to shatter him for it.
He reasoned with himself that this was no masochistic urge. He didn’t want to punish Marcus Acacius for a damn thing. It was only that he wanted something for himself. Something Caracalla couldn’t touch. A loyalty he would never have to question.
Marcus Acacius’ loyalty was, above all else, to the Roman people. And while that wasn’t a sentiment Geta particularly shared, he at least knew where he stood. The Roman court was a whirlwind of backstabbing and intrigue, and it was admittedly unnerving just how reassuring Acacius’ very presence was in the midst of all that. To Geta, he was the calm at the center of a raging tempest.
And, as their concurrent rule reached the six-month mark, kicking and screaming, Geta began to get the impression that this sentiment was one Marcus shared for him.
When Marcus Acacius arrived home to report after another successful campaign, he bowed his head and kissed Geta’s ring before Caracalla’s. When the brothers entered a room or moved to address a crowd together, it was Geta’s gaze he sought first.
Then, came the party.
Two hard months of battle with the Britons. Casualties and concessions, certainly, but it had ultimately been victorious as always. Caracalla insisted they throw a lavish celebration, and Geta could find no reason to object.
He hadn’t seen Marcus Acacius in two long months.
Yet his eyes still held the same vague contempt for Caracalla. The same glazed disinterest when he spoke, even as Caracalla toasted to the general himself.
Geta and Caracalla had moved to opposite corners of the hall once the esteemed partygoers had been addressed, and Geta knew people would make their rounds, greeting his elder brother first before gracing him with their attention.
This would have exclusively been the case had Marcus not sought him out.
“Emperor Geta,” his rough, deep voice said in acknowledgement. Impassive, bordering on toneless. Much as he had when he arrived, he bowed his head to kiss Geta’s ring. But his eyes never left Geta’s face as he did. Geta’s heart pounded with unfamiliar urgency as it seemed Marcus lingered there a moment longer than necessary.
“Ave, General,” Geta replied. “Allow me to offer my personal congratulations for your recent victories. Might I honor you with a toast?”
“An honor indeed,” Marcus answered, a nervous laugh bubbling up his throat. “One must leave sobriety at the door to survive these frivolous social gatherings unscathed. Not that I’m not grateful for the gesture, of course.”
“Of course,” Geta purred in reply, unbelievably turned on by the fact that Marcus had seemed to forget himself for a moment, had spoken to him so casually.
“I did not mean to insult your efforts to commemorate my–” Marcus began, but Geta waved a hand, dismissing his cursory concerns.
“It’s… refreshing to meet someone else so disillusioned with the spectacle of it all,” Geta said, “I enjoy my fair share of the diversions on offer here, but there is a certain… tediousness to all this pomp and circumstance.”
Geta enjoyed more luxury in a week than Marcus had probably known for the entirety of his life. Any man or woman he desired, fine fabrics, gourmet food, the richest wine one could drink. Their perspectives were not truly comparable. He was not ‘disillusioned with the spectacle’ when eight women from Egypt performed a dance dressed in nothing but perfumed oils for him the night previous. Nor when a rhino had gored a gladiator and paraded him around the coliseum in a perfect loop while he writhed in futile agony at the apex of its horn. But this, he knew, was immaterial to the conversation he was currently having with Marcus. At least on his end.
“A toast,” Geta repeated, his tone gentle and generous. He raised his glass to Marcus, watched as Marcus returned the gesture, and tipped his head back in a way he hoped emphasized the bobbing of his throat.
At least, it would have, had there been any wine in his glass to begin with.
Marcus noticed Geta’s expression of consternation and waved over an attendant.
And then, in a move that ultimately sealed his fate, he poured Geta’s wine for him. The glass was almost full to overflowing because Marcus, it seemed, didn’t know how to pour properly. But that was irrelevant. It was the gesture itself. This time, Geta kept his eyes hooded as he drank from his cup, watching as it seemed Marcus’ gaze indeed fell to the bob of his throat.
Emboldened after downing his cup in one go, Geta turned to the courtyard, beckoning for Marcus to follow him.
“I wish to speak to you without prying eyes,” he explained, “And with the long line of people set on greeting Cara, you won’t soon be missed.”
This was a courtyard Marcus would usually never be allowed to set foot in. Geta only realized this when he turned and caught Marcus staring around, dumbfounded for a moment. The lanterns provided a low light, the noise from the party a distant din. And in that moment, despite the scars and the rough edges, Geta found Marcus truly beautiful.
He coveted.
Oh, how he coveted.
And he knew he deserved a little bit of beauty, something that only belonged to him. Something he wouldn’t have to share.
No words were spared between them. The night air was cool. They passed exotic flowers, fountains, sculptures, all without commentary. There was an atrium at the opposite end of the courtyard that Geta was currently dead set on getting to, a place with reclining chairs and massive marble columns and linens hung for privacy. A place where he could easily dismiss any attendants - after all, how unsafe could he be with the general at his side? - and finally take what he’d longed for all this while.
It overlooked the distant ocean, the city lit below them, and as Marcus ascended the stairs, Geta knew he’d chosen the right place. Marcus drew in a breath as he beheld Rome from a perspective scant few ever saw. His eyes shone, warm admiration clear in his gaze, softening when he turned his eyes to Geta.
“This is what you’ve been fighting for,” Geta said, inspired by the obvious significance this view held to the man in front of him. “It can be difficult to imagine the scale of it outside of battle at times, I imagine.”
“It is humbling,” Marcus nodded.
“I wanted privacy in order to properly show you my appreciation,” Geta said, “I know my brother prides himself on these ornate gestures. But I see in you someone that prefers a more… hands-on approach, in all things.”
Marcus blinked, taking stock of his surroundings in a new light. They’re secluded. Truly alone.
“Emperor Geta, what you’ve shown me tonight has been far and above what I—”
“I insist,” Geta said easily, gesturing to the nearest chaise. “Remove your robes, and lay face down, if you would please.”
Still, Marcus hesitated.
Geta sighed, and in two short strides, he was close enough to reach up and brush the back of his hand over Marcus’ stubbled cheek. Marcus did not so much as flinch, which Geta took as a good sign.
“I have heard that you’re lonely. That you do not mean to bed another as a means of honoring your late wife. But surely you’re not dishonoring her memory by allowing someone anointed by the Gods themselves to lay their hands on you. I only intend to give you a massage. If you object to anything further, I will respect your wishes.”
Something shuttered in Marcus’ expression at that. It was expected; Geta knew mentioning Marcus’ late wife would work, but it would also probably initially sting. It was a calculated risk, but one that paid off when, seconds later, Marcus began undoing the white and gold finery he’d been clothed in, letting it fall to the floor and untying his sandals before draping himself face down over the chaise.
Geta allowed him his dignity for just this moment.
He caught a glimpse of what he’d longed for months to see - a thatch of dark, curly hair. And impressive, if limp, cock. Scars only a handful of other people had probably ever seen. He knew he would drink his fill later. He stepped to his left and poured some perfumed oil into his hands, the calming scent of Lavender permeating the air. Warming it between his palms, he stepped close again, knelt on the chaise and placed a palm on either of Marcus’ shoulder blades.
“Relax,” He encouraged, despite the tremble in his own voice.
Marcus did not answer.
Rubbing his hands in gentle, gradual circles, Geta applied pressure here and there to firm bits of muscle. He spread and flexed his fingertips, kneaded with the heel of his palm, and rolled his knuckles over particularly stubborn spots. Marcus gradually relaxed, just like Geta knew he would. His eyes fluttered shut, his shoulders sagged, his spine bowed into the cushions beneath him.
Geta’s hands swooped lower and lower. He went back for oils once, twice. Made his way to Marcus’ hips before switching to his ankles and working his way up. He saw Marcus begin to respond, perhaps in spite of himself. His balls flexed and his impressive cock began to fill out where they were splayed against a cushion between Marcus’ thighs, so as to not be crushed by his weight. The temptation was too much to resist. Geta brushed his fingertips against the hardening length in a way that could be easily mistaken as accidental before resuming his work. Marcus’ cock visibly throbbed at the brief attention, beading at the tip with evidence of his arousal.
He was so easily aroused, Geta thought almost hysterically. But for a man that had denied himself intimacy for rumored decades, that was understandable.
The impressive globes of Marcus’ ass had been saved for last. Something Geta wanted to give his undivided attention for as long as possible. He kneaded a fistful in each hand, gentle at first, but gradually showing more of his hunger. He began to push and pull at Marcus’ hips slightly with each motion, watching with acute fascination at the way Marcus’ cock throbbed and dribbled against the cushions, gently pressed back and forth against the unyielding fabric.
Marcus groaned, wholly pleasured and unashamed, and Geta grinned to himself.
He stepped away when Marcus’ enjoyment seemed to be at an apex under the guise of adding more oil to his hands. Marcus’ head almost immediately shot up, seeking him, his gaze glassy and unfocused, hazed with unmistakable desire.
“For someone so initially hesitant, you certainly seem to be enjoying yourself,” Geta mused, resuming his massage. He began to pass each thumb between Marcus’ cheeks in an upwardly sweeping gesture. Pressed closer, ever closer, to what he sought as his prize.
“I haven’t allowed anything like this in a long time,” Marcus breathed by way of explanation. “And I haven’t… I’ve never—”
His gasp echoed in their atrium when Geta’s thumb brushed that tight ring of muscle.
“Yes,” Geta agreed conversationally, “I imagine that’s one of the few pleasures your late wife could not have given you. Another reason to discount this as any sort of violation of your original bonds; it's as though the Gods willed you a pleasurable reward unlike any you’ve ever known and chose me as the vessel through which such pleasure flows.”
Marcus’ mind was cloudy enough with pleasure by then to agree to this logic, something Geta could tell by the little aborted thrusts of Marcus’ hips against the cushion beneath him. It would just take another small push.
“I will respect your wishes, meum decus,” Geta purred, “But it would be an honor to express my gratitude for your accomplishments this way. To be the arbiter of such pleasure, if you would allow me to be. Will you let me?”
There was a pause.
Then, slowly, Marcus let his eyes slide closed, and he nodded.
Geta’s fervor was not immediate in the wake of this passion. He’d waited months for this opportunity, and he would not squander it by being overzealous.
His hands continued their massage, the upward swipe of his thumbs against the hole through which he would eventually seek his own pleasure. He knew he could draw this out, wait until Marcus could no longer stay still. To his surprise, it did not take long.
Marcus began to roll his hips backwards, against Geta’s hands, and Geta hummed appreciatively in response.
“Please,” Marcus whispered. “E-empe—”
“None of that,” Geta sweetly corrected as he continued his efforts, “When you are at my mercy like this, I have made you my equal. You may simply call me ‘Geta’.”
“Geta,” Marcus breathed. “Please. More.”
It was no mystery what he meant, and Geta was happy to oblige.
“Rise up onto your knees and spread yourself, meum corculum,” he said.
Marcus scrambled almost clumsily to comply, one shoulder blade pressed into a cushion as he raised up onto his knees, his stance wide enough to allow Geta between his legs, his lower back bowed deliciously.
“There it is,” Geta hummed appreciatively, thumbing Marcus’ asshole with practiced finesse, swiping the rim until it relaxed under his touch, at which point he pressed his thumb all the way inside, in one smooth motion. He pressed it in and downward, seeking the base of Marcus’ length from within, finding the smooth gland within seconds and rubbing the pad of his thumb there leisurely.
Beneath him, Marcus gasped. “That’s–”
“I know,” Geta said, “And it would feel much better with my cock pressed against it, I assure you. Would you like that, General?”
Marcus tossed an unfathomable glance over his shoulder at Geta. “Play by your own rules,” he said, his voice breathier than Geta had ever heard before. “If I am to use your name, use mine as well.”
“If you insist,” Geta said, drawing his robes away from his raging hard-on and leaning over Marcus, letting him feel the formidable length of it, warm in his most intimate of places. “Would you allow me to fuck you, Marcus? It will make my thumb seem pathetic in comparison. I will bring you pleasure that will make you scream loud enough for the Gods to hear you.”
Marcus huffed out a surprised laugh at that, another sound Geta had never heard from him until this fortuitous evening. “Yes,” he breathed. “But you had better make good on your word.”
Geta needed no more permission than that, aligning himself and pressing inward at the first confirmation, pressing himself all the way to the root in one smooth go, throbbing so harshly he might’ve come at once if the way Marcus was squeezing him hadn’t bordered on painful. Marcus’ hands flew up to the headrest of the chaise, grabbing desperately for something that would ground him.
His hands circled Marcus’ hips, drove in and out of him at a gradually increasing pace, his focus almost mechanical as Geta focused all of his attention on making this last longer than a handful of seconds. He watched as Marcus’ cock bobbed, beautiful and full, between his legs at the outset of every thrust. He once again sought that spot that seemed to drive Marcus wild and bore down upon finding it, especially given that it made Marcus begin to relax and flutter around him.
“You are, without a doubt, the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted with my cock,” Geta breathed. Whether it was objectively true or not was immaterial. It was true for the moment.
Marcus bore back against him, beginning to use the headrest of the chaise as leverage to all but bounce back into Geta’s grip, their thighs slapping together at the upswing of each stroke. The noises he was making were honey on Geta’s tongue, music to his ears. He vowed to commit them to memory.
“I am close,” Geta warned, unable to hold back anymore. “Touch yourself, bring yourself off for me.”
Marcus complied, one of his hands snaking down beneath him, between his legs to grip his cock. His whole body shuddered as he stroked himself once, twice, thrice–
And then he spilled all over the cushions beneath him, his moans raw and resonant enough to resonate off the cliffside, likely hungrily absorbed by the ocean below.
Geta nearly immediately followed, his grip on Marcus’ hips bruising as he buried himself inside to the hilt and spilled himself as deep as he could get, marking Marcus in a way he knew for certain Caracalla never could. And even if he did, it would be dampened because Geta had finally gotten there first.
He pressed an open mouthed kiss to Marcus’ shoulder blade as he pulled out, letting Marcus collapse onto the cushions below to catch his breath.
“Do you think the Gods heard me scream?” Marcus asked, his voice surprisingly mirthful.
“I think all of Rome heard you scream,” Geta replied wryly. “But we might endeavor to repeat our efforts until the Gods give us a sign that you’ve been heard.”
Geta was certainly not a kind or patient man. He was selfish. One way or another, though, he’d always get what he wanted. And if he could make even one person see stars in a way his brother never could, if he could command the gaze of one person in any given room above his brother, he felt truly blessed in a way he knew deep down he didn’t deserve that this person was Marcus Acacius.